


Dead Wrong

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Those 100 [12]
Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well… That’s not allowed anymore.”<br/>“Excuse me? Did you just say I’m not allowed to be wrong anymore?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Wrong

Winston hadn’t even brought Ecto to a full stop before Peter was out of the vehicle, slamming the door so hard behind him that it shook the car’s heavy frame.  He bypassed his locker completely and ignored Egon’s call of his name, instead stomping up the stairs, heedless of the blue slime footprints he was leaving behind.  Egon sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, rounding the modified hearse to begin removing equipment.  “Egon,” The physicist looked up to find Winston beside him, looking grim, “Ray and I can get the gear.  You go take care of that mess.”

The older man nodded towards the staircase and Egon knew he wasn’t referring to the ectoplasmic residue Peter had trailed up the steps.  “Thank you, Winston.” Egon nodded in return and headed across the garage.

It was easy enough to follow Peter’s trail through the firehouse and up to the third floor bathroom.  The door was shut and the sound of water hitting tile could be heard beyond it.  Egon didn’t bother knocking, as he and Peter hadn’t hesitated to invade each other’s space in years.  The door knocked against a pair of boots carelessly tossed away and Egon stepped carefully around them, shutting the door behind himself.

Peter was facing the tub, his left side to the door, hunched over as he fumbled with the front of his jumpsuit.  Goo-coated gloves had long been discarded, but most of Peter’s torso was still liberally coated in vibrant blue ectoplasm.  It reminded Egon briefly that a fair amount of the stuff was uncomfortably soaking into his pant legs.  “Peter.”

The psychologist ignored him, instead trying and failing again to grip the pull of his zipper.  “Peter, please.”

Finally Peter showed some acknowledgement, swearing and gripping the front of his jumpsuit, pulling ineffectively at the soggy material.  “Damnit, Egon, will you get the hell out of here so I can get this shit off of me and just go to bed?” He demanded, dropping his hands to his side, “Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes,” Egon replied, moving to the toilet and pulling a length of toilet paper off the roll, “It is.”

He wadded the material up and used it to grasp the pull of Peter’s zipper, managed to finally get the offending article halfway open before it got stuck on a particularly large hunk of ectoplasm.  “Great, thanks.  You wanna go now?” Peter huffed, struggling out of his uniform at last.

“I am not going anywhere until we have talked.” Egon responded stubbornly.

Peter scowled, turning the full force of his admittedly intimidating glare on his partner.  The blond only met his stare calmly, making his willingness to fight Peter every step of the way known.  At last, the psychologist sighed and shimmied the rest of the way out of his suit.  “What in the hell were you thinking, ‘gon?” He muttered, sounding more tired now than angry.

“I was thinking,” Egon replied, bending down to undo the laces of his boots, “That I had it.”

“Well you were wrong, weren’t you?” Peter asked stiffly as he ripped his t-shirt over his head.

Egon looked up as he began to shed his own suit.  “I am not infallible, Peter.  I have been wrong before.”

“Well…” Peter paused in unbuttoning his jeans, “That’s not allowed anymore.”

“Excuse me?” Egon raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “Did you just say I’m not allowed to be wrong anymore?”

“Not when it means your life, Egon!” Peter snapped, “Not when it means you’re going to be speared by Yogi the Bear’s cranky, undead cousin!”

The physicist shook his head the unorthodox description of the entity they had just captured.  “That seems to be placing a rather undue burden on me.” He stated, finally stepping out of his uniform.

“Deal with it.” Peter growled, “Because that’s your job, Spengler.  It’s your job to come up with the great ideas and gadgets that save our asses and calculate things down to the fifth decimal and be goddamn _right._   And it’s _my_ job to do all the stupid, dangerous shit so you don’t.  So I don’t…”

“So you don’t what, exactly?”

“Forget it.” Peter grumbled.

“Tell me, Peter.” Egon demanded, beginning to feel sparks of irritation, “You owe me as much, if you’re going to have such high expectations of me.  I can hardly do proper _calculations_ if I don’t have all the variables.”

“So I don’t have to deal with losing you!” Peter finally snapped, surging forward and wrapping his hand around Egon’s bicep, “Don’t you get it?  I can’t-  I can’t deal with that, Egon.  So just don’t…”

“And you think I am better equipped to deal with losing you?  With something happening to you?” The taller man stepped forward, crowding into Peter’s space, “Do not suggest that you in some way expendable, Peter, or that you are less important than anyone else on this team.  That would be an error in judgment more grievous than any I have made.”

Green eyes met blue in a defiant gaze, and Peter seemed ready to continue arguing before he suddenly sagged forward and dropped his head on Egon’s shoulder.  “Damn it, Spengs, you make me do some crazy stuff, you know that?” He muttered.

“I don’t think you require any help in that area, Peter.”

Peter’s shoulders shook minutely in amusement, but he said nothing more.  He had yet to relinquish his grip on Egon’s bicep, and Egon brought his free arm around Peter’s waist, holding him in place.  Finally, as Egon’s glasses began to fog up from the heat of the shower spray, he broke the silence.  “We’re going to run out of hot water.” He stated.

“Well, maybe we should get a move on, then.” Peter suggested, slipping his hands up under the sweatshirt Egon had pulled on under his jumpsuit—a hurried acquisition from the chair in the corner of his and Peter’s room.

“Perhaps.” Egon agreed, meeting Peter’s mouth eagerly when the brunet raised his head.

“Just promise me something, Spengs,” Peter said quietly as they pulled apart, “Be right more often.”

Egon nodded solemnly, suppressing a small smile.  “I shall endeavor to do so.”

“Good,” Peter kissed him again before pushing the sweatshirt up and over blond hair, “Now come help me get this blue crap out of my hair.”


End file.
